


Torn From One Danger to Another

by MSobel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Chaptered, Eventual Relationships, F/M, Gen, Graphic Description, John Watson doesn’t exist, Kidnapping, Long, Male-Female Friendship, Multi, Other, POV Alternating, POV Original Character, References to Depression, References to Sexual Assault, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25684300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MSobel/pseuds/MSobel
Summary: Laurie has spent the last seven years of her life in brutal captivity, abused and ravaged by a powerful mastermind of pure evil. When she sees a chance to run, desperation leads her to the railing of London Bridge where a dangerously mysterious man comes between her and the icy waters of the Thames. Will this strange detective be able to protect her from the web of evil that follows her? And in the meantime—can Laurie save herself from her own demons?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Original Female Character(s), Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclaimer: Laurie is blatantly based on a much cooler version of me—my alternate universe alter ego, you could say. I started writing this fic for my own biased entertainment but hey, maybe someone else will like it too so I’m going to start posting here! There will be plenty of angst and an eventual romance...in the meantime I’m focusing on creating a well-rounded character and story arc.
> 
> Graphic violence, attempted suicide, sexual and mental abuse. Take care.

London Bridge. Grey and plain, it was the shabby, inconspicuous counterpart to the dazzling Tower Bridge just a stone’s throw away. Tourists were consistently surprised to learn that the famous name that is synonymous with the extravagant turquoise bulwarks were not, in fact, the famous ‘London Bridge’ of lore. They flock there to admire her world-famous glory, while the true London Bridge, hidden in plain sight, continues to languish in mediocrity. 

Perhaps that’s why I always liked it better than any other bridge in the City. Like me, it was alone, nothing of importance to anyone who amounted to anything, condemned to exist in the shadows. That’s why, tonight, I had chosen this bridge to put an end to my shadows. 

I didn’t want to do it. Once upon a time, I had been happy. I thought I would live a long, normal, happy life, complete with a handsome devil to sweep me off my feet and whisk me away to ever after. It’s what every young girl wants, yeah? Well, I had gotten the handsome devil-for a while-but what followed after had been pure hell. I was no longer an innocent child, but an anguished soul. And so here I was, shivering against the stone railing of the bridge and gazing into the choppy waters of the Thames. I knew they would be coming after me at any moment. I knew that when they did I would be dragged back into the hell on earth with doubled security and no chance for escape, a merciless prospect that at this point held no compare with the silence of true death. And yet, I was still standing firmly on the ground, unable to make the next move. 

NO TIME. A gust of icy wind ravaged through my worn jumper, sending shudders through my body. I leaned against the railing, pressing my palms into gritty concrete, and stared down into the turbulent, black river below. Squeezing my eyes shut, I willed my frozen muscles to obey my command. 

“Rather chilly for a walk about, wouldn’t you agree?” 

A voice came rippling through the wind with a suddenness that sent a terrifying jolt of utter fear-and despair-though my entire being. At that moment I was paralyzed to move, even though every moment that I stood frozen and alive was a moment that brought me closer to capture. I could see movement in the corner of my eye, and I found myself turning towards it against my will. 

Only a few metres away from me was a man, a tall and mysterious figure silhouetted against the dull glow of the street lamp, a long coat swirling around his legs. I couldn’t see his face, but I didn’t recognize the figure-it wasn’t one of Them. The realization eased some of the panic, but this was still bad. I had no time for complications, but by the way the man kept walking steadily towards me, I couldn’t see a way to avoid it. 

He came closer, coat flapping in the wind and a distinct sense of purpose in his stride. I felt myself shrink back against the railing, instinctively reaching my arm out as if to ward him off. My voice choked through the pounding in my chest. 

“Don’t come near me!” Then, desperately as he didn’t slow, “leave me alone!” 

Something in my voice, ragged with dread, must have reached him then, and he slowed down dramatically, as if approaching a wild animal. 

“Believe me,” he called out, his voice carrying richly on the wind, “Killing yourself is possibly one of the most boring choices you could make, wouldn’t you agree? However trivial your life must be, I imagine it’s still a small step up from  _ that. _ ” A gloved hand flung out in a gesture towards the water. What a bizarre statement, and yet his voice carried some sort of conviction that almost calmed me. I hesitated, still wary but unsure how to respond. The man was still walking forward slowly, closing the distance between us. 

“There’s no point in it at all.” He continued. He stepped forward into the halo of amber light and his face was illuminated. It was almost ghostly, all gaunt shadows and pale skin, dark curls whipping across his forehead. His eyes, though, transfixed me. Brilliant and piercing, they were focused on me with a keen gaze. I could sense no malice or intent of harm but at the same time there was something lurking there that unnerved me. Almost unconsciously I took another step backwards, bracing my arms against the railing. Indeed, there was no point in it at all. And he was getting too close to me. 

“I’m so sorry.” I heard my words break with a sob as I turned away and shoved against the railing, trying to hoist myself up. There was a flash of movement and the next instant I was blocked by a blur of coarse fabric and a thin frame, close enough to feel the heat from his body. The man gripped my arms firmly-not quite gently-and deftly twisted me around, placing himself between me and the ledge. I looked up into his face. He tipped his head, staring right through me, it seemed, and for a few moments time seemed to still completely. That piercing gaze held me in place as surely as the grip of his hands on my arms. An minute-or an hour-of complete silence passed between us. Then abruptly he seemed to click something into place and he sucked in a deep breath, breaking the spell. 

“You don’t want to die.” He said simply. “And you’re not going to jump off of this bridge.” He stated it matter-of-factly, as if he had looked at me and seen a sign on my forehead with those exact words blazoned across it. Taken aback, I opened my mouth to reply but he rushed on in the same breath, 

“You’ve been driven to this choice, haven’t you. You’re running from something. Someone. Someone so powerful that they will find you no matter where you run. Even now you know they’re on your trail, don’t you?  _ Listen to me.”  _ He leaned close to my face, stressing each word. “I can help you.” There was a complete earnesty in his voice and an utter certainty in his own words. But beyond that, I could sense some sort of...something...intrigue? Glee? As if he was talking about some amusement park ride. 

I couldn’t answer. This stranger had just spoken my very mind, but there was no way he could know what he was really talking about, let alone be able to offer any sort of help. There was no way. Nevertheless, I felt myself relenting, just a little. Years had passed without a kind word towards me. This man seemed just a bit deranged, but at the same time I felt a reluctant trust thawing within me. It took everything in me not to relent, to burst into tears and beg him to hide me, knowing full well the danger I would put him in. But before I had a chance to decide for sure exactly what I was going to do, the unmistakable roar of a car engine broke through the clamor in my brain. I felt my mouth go dry and I snapped my head towards the headlights at the end of the bridge, tearing at a definitely illegal speed towards us. My mind went numb with terror. 

“Oh God.” It was all I could say. “Oh God, no. No.” I felt my body shaking wildly, knees beginning to buckle. Abruptly the stranger shook me roughly, sending a jolt of feeling back to my unraveling nerves. In the same swift motion pulled me into his side, enveloping me in his coat and wrapping his arm around my shoulders with an iron grip, turning us both to face out towards the glimmering lights of Tower Bridge. 

“Do not allow yourself to lose control!” He hissed. “Just stay quiet and do not turn around.” I ducked my head, still trembling with adrenaline and terror. I was an idiot. I had run twice over the years and both times they’d found me, what a fool I was to think that the third time would be the charm. I also knew without a doubt that they wouldn’t let me survive to escape again. As the lights bore down on us I huddled closer to the man protecting me, his unyielding body providing a slim illusion of safety. A faint heat was quavering around him and even through my numb fear I could feel it thawing my frozen skin. He simply stood still, gazing calmly over the water, but as the engine roared to a stop, washing a harsh headlight over us, I felt his muscles tense with an energy akin to an electric charge. The engine hummed. Doors opened and slammed shut, twice. Two of them, then. I couldn’t breathe. 

“Alright mate, turn around slowly. Put your hands up.” His voice was gravely, the harsh accent instantly recognizable to me; he was one of the cruelest and strongest of the crew. I knew him only as T. There was a moment of stillness, then a slight rustle as the man turned slowly, stepping slightly in front of me as a barrier. His coat fell away from my shoulders, brushing goosebumps across my skin. 

“Evening, gentlemen,” He said coolly. His refined accent was a ludicrous contrast to the coarseness of T’s voice. I could see them both, burly, scruffy men. T was the closest, the gun in his callous hands aiming directly at us. The other one, J, was standing behind him, hand resting loosely on his firearm. Still slightly in front of me, I saw a curious lack of fear in my stranger’s face. His eyes were flickering rapidly between the two, taking in every detail with a laser focus. Before either one of them had a chance to speak again, he continued in the same conversational tone. 

“Anything we can help you with tonight?” 

T gestured towards me with the tip of his pistol. “We don’t want nothin’ with you, mate. Just let your lady friend here get in the car with us and we’ll be off. No ‘arm done.” He grinned, a twisted grimace. I stared back, nearly paralyzed. The man beside me seemed unfazed. 

“If I’m not mistaken, and I rarely ever am, I do believe she doesn’t want to get in the car with you.” A faint glimmer of light caught my eye. Still slightly in front of me, he had one hand behind his back-how had they not noticed?!-and was texting rapidly on his mobile with a deft thumb. A split second later he stopped and held it still, turned towards me but covering the text with his fingers and continued talking.

“I do hope you know that your girlfriend—Brenda, isn’t it?—is shagging your colleague here.  _ And  _ she’s planning on breaking up with you.” 

The words seemed to electrify both of them. T nearly stumbled backwards, disbelief and shock wiping across his face. The other, J, stood stupefied behind him. The stranger made a quick gesture with his his hand, drawing my eyes to the mobile, and at the exact instant that T turned towards his partner with an incredulous “What the bloody ‘ell’s ‘e talkin’ about?” He flashed the screen at me. One word lit the screen. 

RUN.

I did. It was as if I was flung into action without even deciding to, and mayhem exploded around me. A shout, two, a flurry of movement and the unmistakable impact of two bodies hitting each other. My feet pounded against the pavement, echoing my thudding heartbeat. I had barely made it beyond the circle of light and into the blessed shadow before a gunshot split the air and I stumbled, instinctively glancing back. The next instant I was slammed against the ground, air knocked out of my lungs like a punch to the gut. A hand gripped my hair and shoved my face into the rough concrete, another twisting my arm behind my back. It felt nearly dislocated. 

“You really thought you’d make it this time, eh?” J’s raspy voice was obscenely close to my ear, yet oddly distant. I felt detached, hovering outside the brutal scene. From the corner of my vision I saw T flat on the ground, a few feet away. A dark, glistening trail led off towards where I was lying, nearly crushed by the weight of the man on top of me. I noticed the legs of the stranger next, looking directly in front of me, somehow still impeccable. His voice filtered through the ringing, commanding and terrible—

“Get off of her.” 

I strained to look up and caught a glimpse of metal in his hand, aiming directly above my body, before my head was roughly shoved back down and I felt a cold, sharp line against my throat. 

“Can’t do that, mister,” There was almost a gloat in J’s voice. “I’ll kill her if you make another move. Put that gun down. The blade tightened against my skin, a warning. I squeezed my eyes shut, tears stinging the corners. The stranger scoffed. 

“You think a knife as dull as that one will kill her? You’d have to slice the carotid artery in exactly the right place to even have a chance of her bleeding out and you’re currently nowhere near it. And with your sadly unsharpened blade, I could shoot you twice before you’ve gone a centimeter. Consider yourself at the disadvantage, sir.” I felt the blade hesitate. Then it slowly drew away as J realized the truth in the statement. The pressure on my back lifted and he pulled himself to his feet with a disgusted grunt. I gulped in air, going limp with the relief. J stepped over me and the stranger gestured him away. 

“Drop your knife. Take your cell out, drop it too, and  _ don’t  _ forget that gun of yours.”

J stooped down, tossing the knife to the ground. As he began to straighten, I saw something change in his face and I knew instantly what he was going to do. I flung myself up and towards him as he yanked out his pistol, my fingertips catching the metal and knocking it towards me. There was an explosion of noise-it seemed to come from the very universe itself, blasting through my entire being-and then a deafening, ringing silence. J’s gun clattered beside my face and he reeled back, tripping over my torso and collapsing across me, crushing me with the sudden weight. 

I was in space. Floating somewhere between light and dark, no body weighing me down. The sound of the universe ringing through my being, I watched from afar as the man dropped to his knees, shoving the limp body off my back and turning me over by my shoulders. His mouth was moving, mouthing words that I couldn’t hear through the cacophony of silence in my head. I felt myself drifting further away...I just wanted to sleep. As I closed my eyes, an abrupt and rough shake jolted me back, and my eyes met his, so close to my face. They pierced through the encroaching with a brilliance that seemed to illuminate the darkness around me and I felt myself being dragged back into my body. I felt the clammy concrete beneath me, heard the sounds of London slowly coming back into focus, though the ringing in my ears never stopped. 

The stranger had shaken me, his hands were still gripping my shoulders. His eyes bored into mine with a focused intensity. 

“ _ Stay awake!”  _ He spoke loudly and clearly. “Do  _ not  _ close your eyes, I need you to keep looking at me. Do you feel any pain?”

I didn’t. I tried to speak but nothing came out, and I shook my head, sending a sudden wave of dizziness through my skull. It was sickening. The stranger’s voice came swimming through again, an anchor. 

“...Keep your eyes open. You’ve been shot through the left shoulder and you are entering a state of shock due to the continual blood loss and blunt head trauma. You need to remain conscious for as long as possible as you may develop a concussion. Can you hear me?” I nodded again. He went on. “I’m going to open your blouse up and staunch the blood flow-“ He reached for the scarf around his neck unwrapped his scarf. I realized then he was only in his shirt sleeves, and I became aware of the woolen weight of his coat across my body that I previously hadn’t noticed. So warm...I was faintly aware of hands gently pulling my blouse aside, brushing across my bra and exposing skin to the chill of the night.

No. 

I cried out and jerked away, nearly retching at the wave of nausea that washed through me. I felt pain then, ripping through at the sudden movement, so strong that I fell back, everything going black for a moment. I heard myself whimpering in the background-“Don’t touch me. Please don’t touch me!” Over and over, a beg that had utterly failed me time and again. As the dizziness began to fade, I could see his eyes again, staring wide-eyed at me.

“I won’t touch you.” He said. A trace of..something...strained his voice. “I need to stop the bleeding right now or you will be in imminent danger of dying. I won’t touch you anywhere except your wounded shoulder. Do you trust me?” 

I still felt sick at the thought, but the earnesty in his voice almost began to lessen the panic. He gazed at me, unblinking, for an eternity until I dragged myself together and whispered, “Yes.” I felt the cold track of a tear trace down my cheek. I squeezed my eyes closed as he placed the scarf on my wound, gasping in pain when he pressed down firmly. 

“Are you alright?” He asked, and I dragged my eyes open yet again. Behind him, I could see a glimpse of T lying contorted, the ground glistening with black liquid, creeping out from his body and my own. The man who seemed to be holding my life force in with his scarf was kneeling in a slick of my blood, trousers sodden. 

“Your trousers.” I tried to speak but the words barely escaped. Still, he glanced up with a hint of amusement. 

“No need to worry, it nearly always washes out. The women at the cleaners hate me for it, I’m afraid.” His wry words were interrupted by the faint wail of a siren in the distance and he looked down the road. “Ambulance. One minute and forty-six seconds later than they had any excuse to be,” he commented with a grimace of disgust. “Typical.” Looking back down at me, he continued, “I’ve arranged transport for you to be taken to St. Bart’s Hospital. I can assure you that every precaution will be taken to ensure your privacy and you will be protected around the clock until you have recovered sufficiently at which point-“ His voice took on a thrill of intrigue-“You will tell me everything you know about the group you’ve escaped and I will bring the matter to a close and you will be free to do whatever you please. Ah, finally!” The ambulance shrieked to a stop beside us and as the uproar of voices and frantic movement surrounded me, I finally faded into a blissful daze that soon swallowed me in nothingness. 


	2. Chapter 2

I hadn’t known silence in years. Every waking moment and even my dreams were crowded with demons, slowly undermining any spark left until I sometimes believed there was nothing left of myself. Now, as I felt my blurred mind slowly fade back into consciousness, I heard nothing but the steady bleep of machines filtering through the muted silence. It broke through the fog in my head, dragging me unwillingly awake, instantly unnerved by the unnatural quiet. I lay perfectly still, disoriented, for a few moments until I willed my eyes open and was met with the calm , dull pink walls of a hospital room. No dark, sneering faces in the corners, no groping and bruising hands, no callous laughter. I was alone in amongst the beeps and pink walls and the likely medication-induced lightheadedness. 

No dark-haired, keen-eyed stranger with a woolen coat. 

I lay still, floating in my half-conscious daze for a few minutes, the dull pain in my shoulder and chest the only thing weighing me down. It occurred to me, after a while, that I should be more alert, aware of a trap, but my fuzzy head couldn’t seem to be bothered to form coherent plans of any sort. Memories of the night before-presumably-began to drift back, the words of reassurance from the strange man easing the doubts about my safety. So I simply laid there and stared at the ceiling with half-lidded eyes, vaguely wishing for his reappearance. 

I was nearly drifting off again when the distinct squeak and subsequent door slam jolted me back, bracing myself instinctively. Turning my head, I saw him sweep into the room. The mystery man who wasn’t afraid of guns. The man who had knelt in my blood and pressed his scarf against my flowing wound. And the man who, apparently, was not at all surprised to see me awake. 

“Good afternoon, sleepyhead!” He announced cheerily, setting a steaming styrofoam cup on the table beside my bed and taking a noisy slurp of the second one in his hand. “That is something you people say, isn’t it?” His forehead wrinkled briefly above the rim of the mug. “Unimportant. Tea?” He gestured towards the cup by my head. 

He had breezed into the room less than a minute ago and already I felt disoriented by the whirlwind of energy he carried with him. I tried to form a coherent thought to speak as he took another loud sip and slammed the cup down carelessly. “On second thought, hospital tea is awful. Don’t bother.” Swiftly he pulled a plastic chair from the wall, positioned it by the bed, and dropped into it, facing me with his elbows on his knees and propping his chin with his fingers. “How are you feeling?” He asked, and his eyes shifted briefly away as he asked. I began to answer, still a bit dizzy. 

“Alright...tired—“ “-Perfect!” He cut me off abruptly, his gaze returning to me with an intense sparkle. “Now. I want you to tell me everything about the rest of those men and where they can be found. Please leave out everything I already know and all other irrelevant details if at all possible. Go!” And he promptly went silent. 

My mind was beginning to clear and as it did, I found myself falling back into the wariness that had pervaded my conscious for eons. Nothing about this man seemed threatening-scratch that-he seemed intensely dangerous, like a cobra ready to strike at any glance. I knew none of it was directed at me, I had seen him take out two men bare-handed to save me. Still, one could never be too sure. 

“Who are you?” My voice was embarrassingly faint and gravelly, but I cleared it and continued, “Why do you want to know these things?” I had barely gotten the words out before being cut off with an impatient wave. 

“Unimportant.” He sounded dreadfully bored. “If you had simply followed my instructions we’d be  _ so  _ much further along by now and yet you insist on bogging down progress with such trivialities as introductions. Very well…” he heaved a sigh—“The name is Sherlock Holmes. I’m the World’s Only Consulting Detective and I assist Scotland Yard from time to time when their small minds get stuck as they so often do-it’s embarrassing really. I can see you don’t believe me, very well, here is a newspaper article covering a recent case I solved-look.” He held his phone out towards me and there it was, a bold headline stating “Consulting Detective Solves Serial Killer Case” accompanied by a grainy photo of himself sporting a rather idiotic deerstalker. I only caught a glimpse before he flicked if off and dropped it back into his pocket. “I do hope that satisfies you,” he muttered. “Need I continue or can we get on with the matter at hand?” 

I felt a slim flare of hope flutter in my chest. I believed him, and there was no doubt this man, Sherlock Holmes, held some sort of incredible power that could perhaps even help me. The mere thought of living a normal life again was staggering and it was quickly replaced with the old doubts and ingrained fear again. And this detective, while intriguing, was dreadfully rude! The words that slipped from my mouth were solely based on that last sentiment. 

“For someone who wants to get on with it, you certainly do a lot of talking.” 

He blinked, seemingly caught off guard. Then, “Is that really all you got from that-never mind. Do put your eloquence to use and finally  _ tell me  _ who those men are and where I can find their leader.” His voice rose in annoyance, almost menacing. I hesitated, no idea where to begin. How to give him what he needed without giving away unspeakable revelations about my involvement. Things I could never bring myself to say out loud, but were inextricably entwined with all of it. Finally, I went with the simplest, most obvious opening. 

“They’re dangerous. There’s so many of them-“

The chair crashed to the ground. Sherlock was on his feet, whirling away from me in frustration. 

“Good Lord, woman!  _ Obviously  _ they’re dangerous! Do you really believe that statement was in any way necessary?” Every sentence grew in volume and aggrievance as he flung himself around, hands gesturing in a nearly ludicrous way. Somehow I was reminded of a toddler, denied something and throwing a fit of grievance. He whipped towards me suddenly and fixed me with a piercing stare. “Very well, how about I tell you everything I already know and then I will tell  _ exactly  _ what information I still need from you and  _ possibly  _ then we can get somewhere with this!” He inhaled sharply. “Starting with you. Age, twenty-two to twenty-four, conventionally attractive although frightfully unkempt. You were going to jump off London Bridge but it was out of desperation, not depression. You could have been your average runaway, frustrated with your home life, but the obvious malnutrition and signs of physical abuse indicate that you were in a dangerous situation against your will. Which was confirmed of course when two men tried to take you by gunpoint. This is not your typical domestic abuse-two men were sent to take you back by force which is indicative of a larger operation. So you were kidnapped, then. There are no Missing Persons files that match your description, leaving two options-either the kidnapper was someone you already knew or you have no family to miss you when you were taken. I’d be willing to bet however that you grew up on the streets, alone and penniless and became entangled with bad company at a young age, leading to your eventual capture. Why would someone take a young female off the streets? The simplest answer is nearly always the truth—an attractive girl by herself in the city’s underbelly is the victim of base male desires and finds herself in an inescapable situation. Obviously you’ve been sexually and physically abused, leaving a traumatic mark that gave you no escape but to end it by committing suicide——“

“STOP!!” 

The word rang through the sudden silence. I felt tubes pulling out of my skin as I jerked away from him, every nerve in my body alight with abject distress at hearing those words. I felt a churning, hot fury coiling sickly in my gut as I pointed a shaking finger toward the door.

“Leave me alone! You have no right to say those things!” My voice was ragged, trembling, and I couldn’t recognize any of myself in it. 

Sherlock was still. Frozen in place, as if he simply couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. I heard myself yell again, a heavy tear run hotly down my face, and he flinched. Then, slowly, he backed towards the door, still staring at me. He opened his mouth, inhaled, and closed it again. My chest and head throbbed with a dizzying pain.

“Please leave.” I whispered. “Thank you for saving me. I don’t need your help anymore. Leave.” 

Sherlock reached and put his hand on the knob, turning it slowly, pulling the door open even more slowly. As he stepped through the doorway, he looked back at me, the spark in his eyes replaced with some vague emotion. 

“I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” He said simply, and shut the door behind him. As soon as the door closed I felt the rush of bile in my throat and I crumpled over myself, retching. 

  
  


Nurses came and went. More medication was pumped through my veins and endless questions were thrown in my face, probing, intrusive questions that were a harsh contrast to the impersonal tone of the doctors. They were used to asking hard questions. I couldn’t bring myself to answer any of them. In the end, they gave up and simply administered the disease tests and rape kits, which gave them all the answers they needed without me saying a word. Over the next week, no one besides the medical personnel entered my room, although I could catch glimpses of imposing, black-clad figures standing outside the door at every hour of the day. I remembered vaguely the words of Sherlock Holmes as he knelt beside me in the street that night “...you will be protected around the clock until you have recovered…” and I wondered what power he had to enforce such a task. Each day that passed without his mesmerizing, through infuriating, presence dragged on a little slower. After he left I had sobbed uncontrollably, curling in on myself in an attempt to ease the pain that wracked my body. The utter lack of tact in the words he had blurted out had triggered a visceral reaction that I couldn’t control and left me shell-shocked in the aftermath, but, somewhere hidden deep inside, I knew he was only speaking the truth. The next few days passed in a drug-induced haze broken only by the intrusive tests and procedures that left me ragged and raw, and as I lay alone and aching in that dull pink room, I wondered if he would come back. 

And on the sixth day, he did. 


	3. Chapter 3

The nurse had turned on the small telly at the end of the bed and I had been listlessly watching some crap show for the last half hour, drifting in and out of the medicated daze that was quickly becoming the new normal. The show had just switched to an audaciously chaotic commercial for men’s virility boosters when voices outside my room came filtering through the closed door, agitated and in heated conversation. I froze for an instant, the old fight or flight instinct struggling briefly in my gut. Then I reached for the click and turned the volume down, cautiously, as though the slight movement could possibly be heard. 

“She’s not staying with me, and that’s final! I won’t have it and you can’t make me.”

It was Sherlock, voice pitching higher in frustration. I craned my head to catch a glimpse through the slim window on the door but could see nothing but the ever-present profile of whoever was guarding my room. 

“Brother dear.” A different voice. Cool and quieter; I strained to hear the words. “We both know you will do what needs to be done, regardless of whether you want to or not. Need I remind you of the favours that are owed to me—I do believe you’re in the negative balance this time around. Shall we proceed with the arrangements or need I elaborate?”

A sullen silence. Then, a defeated yet petulant, 

“Oh, sod off, Mycroft. Don’t start a war on your way out.” 

I sat on the bed, still frozen in place. Surely they weren’t talking about me—but there was no other explanation——the door was suddenly flung open and I flopped down to my pillow, yanking the bedsheets up in a frantic attempt to hide my eavesdropping. Sherlock swept into the room, annoyance surrounding him like a cologne. 

“Oh, don’t try and pretend you weren’t listening to every word!” He announced, picking up as though I had been the one arguing with him instead of this Mycroft. Sheepish, I sat up. I had been terribly drugged up the last time I saw him, but I was a little clearer headed now and I suddenly felt a wash of shame as his immaculate frame case to a stand still by the bed and swept over my wasted body, covered only by the thin hospital gown. I pulled the sheet up to my chest, crossing my arms against my breasts and brushing away the sudden memory of his hands on my bare skin. Sherlock looked at me for a moment, the petulance morphing into a more slightly resigned expression.

“I suppose you’re wondering what we were talking about just then,” He said, sighing heavily at the effort of explanation. “Obviously you have nowhere to go once you’ve recovered, no job, no acquaintances-not any good ones at least-and your captor and his men are undoubtedly actively looking for you and waiting for the moment you step out of this hospital to come fetch you back. Am I wrong?” I barely nodded in agreement before he went on. “Soooo, my dear brother, head of the British government and a total arse, has decided that you will be safe only if you are under my personal surveillance. An ironic misjudgment on his part but whatever. Do you understand?” He paused, looking at me expectantly. When I hesitated he heaved another sigh and rolled his eyes. “You will be released from hospital tomorrow. And then...you’ll umm...come home with me.” As he spoke he shifted uncomfortably, eyes drifting away from mine. Almost as if he was shy. “Temporarily, of course.” He added. “I work quickly once I get the information I need.” 

I sat still for a moment, trying to absorb such sudden news. Sherlock stood beside me, gazing resolutely at the click by my elbow. I took a breath and gathered myself.

“Thank you,” I murmured. My voice was rusty still, and he glanced at me in an odd surprise. 

“Sorry?”

“I said, thank you. For doing all this for me. No one’s...done anything for me, ever.” Now I was the one to look away, swallowing the sudden ache in my throat. I felt his eyes on me again and I forced myself to meet his gaze. He looked a bit lost, swallowing back a word or two before finally answering.

“People don’t usually thank me.” His voice was thin, unsure. “But..you’re welcome.” He blinked and suddenly the moment was wiped away. 

“Right, then.” He flashed a falsely bright grin. “I’d better be off. Criminals to hunt, murders to solve. Cheers!” He slapped his hand down on the bed jovially, sending a twinge up my ribs, and then he was gone. I leaned back against the pillows and stared blankly at the muted telly.


	4. Chapter 4

True to his promise, I woke up the next morning to a bustle of nurses around me, undoing cords and machines, a complete outfit of clothing appearing on the chair by the bedside, several men in dark clothing standing outside the door. I changed into the new clothing—it wasn’t mine; my faded and ill-fitting clothes were a far cry from the soft, luxurious jumper and somehow perfectly fitted jeans that made me feel better than I had in days. The effort of changing left me winded and aching, and when a nurse rolled in a wheeled chair to take me out, I accepted it with only a twinge of embarrassment.

Throughout the morning, I found myself looking for Sherlock, glancing up every time someone came into the room. He had said that I would be staying with him, after all, but he seemed to be taking no interest in any of the business. Eventually, as I was wheeled out into the bright and chilly daylight, I ventured to ask one of the nameless men in suits, 

“So...where am I going, then?” He wheeled me to a swift stop outside a ridiculously expensive-looking black car and put an arm around my shoulders to help me up. “Two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street,” He responded laconically, opening the car door and depositing me inside. Still unenlightened, I sank into the rich leather, marveling at the luxury for a moment. There was a woman sitting on the other side of the bench, tapping away at her mobile as if she hadn’t even seen me. I glanced at her.

“Um...hi…” I ventured. She looked up, flashed a smile.

“Hi.” 

Back to the phone. I tried again. “So...are you friends with Sherlock Holmes?” Another impersonal smile. “Not at all.” 

That was comforting. I gave it up and leaned back as the car began to roll forward into the London traffic. I gazed out the window, unabashedly marveling at the sight of the city during full daylight. I had not been anywhere outside for years except for the daily allotment I had been given in the fenced-in garden of...that place. I watched the city now, fascinated by the bustle and quelling a rush of anger at the years that had been taken from me. 

“We’ve arrived.” The woman’s coolly pleasant voice interrupted my thoughts, and I craned my head around her shoulder to catch a glimpse of the building we had parked in front of. The side door opened and the same man who had helped me in offered his arm to me and I climbed out stiffly, turning as the woman called out, “Bye!” Barely glancing up as I exited.

“D’you still need the chair?” The man asked, keeping his hand on my elbow as we stepped onto the curb, in front of a cheery little cafe sporting a slightly faded red banner with the word ‘SPEEDY’S’ printed across it. I shook my head, determined to use my own feet—I wouldn’t be seen in a wheelchair in front of the man who was apparently the World’s Greatest Consulting Detective. The man led me to the door—221B, just as he’d said—and rapped the knocker against it. We stood there in a dead silence for a few moments until the door opened and a very sweet-looking elderly lady poked her head out. 

“Oh, you must be Sherlock’s new flatmate!” She exclaimed, swinging the door open and shooed us in. “I’m his landlady, Mrs. Hudson. Dreadfully rude of him not to come down. SHERLOCK!” She turned and shouted up the narrow staircase, then turned back towards us, a wide smile across her face. “I’m so glad he’s finally found a nice young lady to settle down with—you know, I would’ve put money that he preferred the lads—“ She lowered her voice dramatically. “But as long as he’s happy.” She started up the staircase, leaving me flustered by her assumption. And there were so many stairs...I noticed suddenly that my escort had stepped away from me and was posted by the door, with no obvious intention to help me up the stairs. Drat. I started slowly up, feeling an immediate whirl of vertigo with the effort. I had made it this far—I would not pass out just from climbing bloody stairs. I gritted my teeth and kept on, focusing on the tingling ache in my shoulder to keep me grounded. Above me Mrs. Hudson was pounding on the door of the first landing, calling out Sherlock’s name with no attempt of politeness. As I joined her on the landing, I heard his voice bellow “Oh, just come in!” From behind the door and Mrs. Hudson sighed, turning the knob and ushering me in. Bashfully I stepped inside, glancing around slightly before catching sight of Sherlock, perched in a leather armchair by the fireplace, knees tucked underneath his chin and arms wrapped around his legs. He looked up at us with a very pronounced glare. 

“Mrs. Hudson, do escort my guest to a seat before she loses consciousness, please, thank you.” His tone, while defiantly impolite, also held just a hint of interest. Mrs. Hudson gasped and hurried to take my arm, and indeed I felt a tunnel of faintness closing in rapidly, nearly stumbling as she eased me into the armchair across from Sherlock. I bent over for a moment, willing my head to clear as the landlady fussed indistinctly above me. When the dizziness lifted, I pulled myself upright and nodded a faint thanks. Sherlock appraised me coolly.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” He drawled. “Would you bring us some tea?”

She clucked disapprovingly. “Now Sherlock, I’m not your housekeeper.” She tipped her head towards me and stage whispered conspiratorially, “He thinks I’m his housekeeper but I’m not, you know. He leaves the place a dreadful mess—but with you around I imagine you’ll keep him a bit tidier. Just this once, dear.” She added, directing her voice towards Sherlock. “You’re perfectly capable of getting it yourself.” And with that she bustled out of the room, leaving the two of us facing each other in silence. 

Sherlock dropped his legs down to the floor, eyes never leaving my face. I fought the urge to shift under his gaze, to drop my eyes but I stubbornly refused, matching his stare. After a minute that seemed to drag on for hours, he blinked and asked abruptly, 

“How long?” 

It startled me. “How long what?”

“How long were you held captive, obviously. More than two years?” 

I dragged in a heavy breath. One way or another, this man was bound and determined to get answers out of me. May as well be straightforward. 

“Six and a half.” 

A flash of shock swept across his face for a swift moment before he wiped it away, rearranging his expression to a neutral position. “How old were you?”

“Fourteen.” 

I looked down then, feeling the familiar clench of panic setting in. Enough of this. Get under control. I looked back up, meeting Sherlock’s light eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” I said steadily. “I know you don’t want me here, and I don’t want to be here any longer than I need to be. I’ll tell you everything you need to know but I’m warning you, it’s dangerous and the longer I’m with you the more at risk you’ll be in.” I paused, taking a shallow breath, and he made no move to interrupt me. “But right now I’m tired. I just left the hospital and walked up a flight of stairs, and I need to lie down before I pass out. Do you have a place I can lie down?” 

Sherlock stood up. Apparently, he responded well to concise wording. “Of course. Umm...the second bedroom’s upstairs but you can use mine until you’ve got more strength. No, it’s fine. I hardly use it anyway. This way.”

He paused, and then held out his hand out to me, helping me to my feet and then putting a long arm around my shoulder when I swayed slightly. He let go as soon as I was steady and I followed down a short hallway. “Bathroom’s here should you need it. I imagine you’ll be wanting to wash the hospital off you. There’s a bag ‘round here somewhere with everything you’ll need—here.” He gestured towards a positively enormous gym bag lying inside the bedroom. I walked through the door tentatively, feeling every bit an intruder. Sherlock stood in the doorframe, making no move to leave.

“My brother lives his life with the sole intention of driving me insane.” He said slowly, and I looked back, not following. “I’m sure he thought that placing you here would be an early Christmas present to him, and I have no intention of giving him the satisfaction of pushing me around like a puppet. Nonetheless, I have nothing against you personally. In fact—“ He pushed on as I listened incredulously, “I’ve been in need of a roommate for a while, and you appear to be somewhat durable, not to mention the fact that you have nowhere else to go. No need to consider it now—“ he cut off my gasp of surprise “—take the time you need to fully recover and once you’ve assisted me with your case we can discuss further terms.” 

With that, he gave a quick nod, then turned and shut the door behind him, leaving me standing in the middle of his bedroom, dumbfounded. Barely a week ago I had encountered this man for the first time, and now he was asking me to be his flatmate? I was suddenly overwhelmed with an incredible exhaustion in the face of this wild turn of events since the night I stood at the guardrail with no hope left. I sat down heavily on the neatly made bed and gazed around the room. It was almost unnaturally tidy compared to the Victorianesque chaos of the rest of the flat, dark walls with a large periodic table poster as part of the sparse decor. I wanted desperately to rest, but the pure strangeness of the situation was keeping me wired with a nervous energy. I got up again and crossed to the window, pulling the curtains back just enough to peer down the street, an instinctive urge to check for any suspicious activity. I knew people were looking for me, and I had been outside in broad daylight twice in the past hour. 

An electronic ping startled me away from the window, coming from the duffel bag on the other side of the room. Inside the front pocket I found a brand new mobile, and when I flicked it on, a lone text message lit up the screen.

THERE ARE GUARDS POSTED ALL ALONG THE STREET AND OUTSIDE THE FLAT. YOU ARE UNDER MAXIMUM SECURITY WATCH AT ALL TIMES. GO TO SLEEP. -S.H.

I looked up instinctively for some sort of camera but I could see nothing out of the ordinary. Nevertheless, it was a bit unsettling to practically have my mind read like that. I turned the mobile off again and moved back to the bed, lying down carefully to avoid jostling my shoulder. It was surprisingly soft and deep and although I felt the urge to stay alert, I soon faded into a heavy, dreamless sleep. 

* * *

_The room was cold. Concrete walls completely bare of any fixtures except for the tiled shower in one corner, dark stains where the plumbing was cracked and leaking. I sit huddled in the corner furthest from the door, eyes fixed to the set of stairs leading down into the basement. Waiting. I hear the hinges creak, heavy footsteps make their way down and I start trembling._

_“Your favorite client is here!” A voice calls down cheerfully. “Back so soon, you must have outdone yourself. Come on.” I wince as a rough hand grips my arm, hauling me to my unsteady feet. Hot fear pools in my aching stomach, and I beg desperately, pointlessly. “Please...I’m hurting...I think something’s wrong, please tell him to let me rest for a while!”_

_The keeper smirks, putting one thick finger under my chin to look at me. “Oh, love, you know he that’s how he likes you best. Broken.” He drags his finger across my lips, shoving roughly inside my mouth. “You’d better put on a good show for our client.”_


	5. Chapter 5

I lurched forward with a strangled gasp, a sour aftertaste filling my mouth. Not a dreamless sleep, after all. The dim walls that surrounded me were far the opposite of the space my mind had created just moments before, and I leaned over, trying to pace my breathing, sweat cooling on my skin.

A shower would be good. I felt sticky, grimy and sullied from the remnants of the nightmare. I swung my legs off the bed—I had fallen asleep on top of the bedspread, shoes still on my feet—and rummaged through the duffel to find an array of hygiene products, several sets of clothing and underwear, another pair of shoes, all obviously brand new. I gathered up what I thought I would need and left the bedroom, closing the door as quietly as I could and creeping down the hall to the bathroom. I couldn’t resist peering around the corner of the hallway into the silent living room, where I caught a glimpse of the detective sitting stock-still in his chair, fingers folded under his chin and eyes closed. There was no evidence that he heard or saw me so I backed away and went into the bathroom.

Emerging from the shower some time later, I dressed and brushed my hair for the first time in weeks, feeling instantly more alert and fresh than I had in awhile. I had carefully avoided looking at myself when I was naked, sickened by the reminders of what I’d been through, the newer, bright marks contrasted against the older, faded scars. I found myself morbidly fascinated by the gunshot wound in my shoulder, though, pulling off the gauze to examine the tiny purple hole flanked by streaks of red and dark bruising. It was incredible how a small puncture of the skin could inflict such an intense toll on a body—one of the doctors had told me at one point that it would be at least another month before it had healed over, and it would continue to pain me for months after that. They had given permission to leave it open when I was discharged, so I threw the bandage away and pulled a soft, loose t-shirt over my head, flinching as the fabric brushed the tender skin.

Although I had been in the bathroom well over a half hour, Sherlock looked as though he hadn’t moved the entire time. I came into the living room and hesitated, wondering exactly what to do next, when he suddenly spoke, eyes never opening. 

“Make yourself at home, no use standing about like a statue. There’s leftover Chinese in the fridge if you want it.” 

Now that he mentioned it, I was indeed starving. I went into the kitchen and opened the fridge, thoroughly shocked to find a glass dish filled with a bloody, goopy mess of...something...on the top shelf.

“Experiment.” Sherlock called from across the room, although I hadn’t said a word. “Frog intestines. Chinese is in the back.” 

I reached past the dish, swallowing a gag, and pulled out the white carton, praying that it wasn’t somehow contaminated. Rummaging around in the deplorably messy cabinets and drawers, I managed to find a fork and knife.

“Do you want some?” I asked, hesitantly. Sherlock still didn’t move. “What day is it?” “Umm...Wednesday. I think.” He considered for a second, then dismissed it. “No, I’m good for a bit.” 

The matter-of-fact admission stunned me finally out of the shy bubble I had been tiptoeing around in all day. “You mean you haven’t eaten at all today?” I asked bluntly, easing into the chair opposite him and setting the container on my lap, forgoing a plate. 

“Hmmm...nope. Eating slows me down. Can’t think.” 

I huffed a small laugh at the irony. I had gone days without eating before, intentionally starved and malnourished, and now here I was sitting in front of a man who chose not to eat simply because he didn’t feel like it. Or something like that. Sherlock cracked one eye open, scowling at me. “What? What’s funny?” “Nothing.” I answered quickly, unwilling to pursue that train of thought. Changed the subject. “What’s the experiment?” 

He opened both eyes at that, looking at me with a quizzical expression. “The intestines?” I nodded. “I’m measuring the effects of decomposition on internal organs when immersed in gelatin over the course of two weeks. Why do you want to know?” He added suspiciously.

I shrugged. “Just making conversation.” Good Lord, this Chinese was delicious, current topic notwithstanding. Sherlock leaned back, rolling his eyes. “What is it with you people and  _ conversation _ . Always needing to fill the silence with nonsense and drivel.” 

“What would you rather do, then?” I retorted. “Sit around with your frog jelly and  _ decompose?” _

Sherlock stared at me, his face utterly blank for a few seconds as if he was deciding whether to be offended or not. Then his face relaxed into a reluctant smile and he let out a low chuckle. The deep rumble sent a faint thrill through my stomach and I lowered my eyes, hiding my answering grin. 

“Well, when you put it  _ that  _ way...” He answered almost jokingly. Abruptly he reached over and dipped his hand into my carton, pulling out a chunk of orange chicken and popping it into his mouth. He leaned back into his chair and stretched his legs out, chewing thoughtfully.

“Let’s have some interesting conversation then, shall we?” He proposed around the mouthful of food. “Are you ready to tell me about your case?” 

His tone was oddly respectful and conversational; a far cry from the almost violent outburst he had hurled at me in the hospital. I couldn’t tell if it was just a new tactic to get me to talk or if it was some sort of grudging respect. Either way, curled up in a shabby armchair, fed, clean, and warm, the request didn’t seem as threatening as it had before. 

“You want me to start at the very beginning?” I asked, hedging a little. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Obviously. Whenever you’re ready.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back! Definitely feeling a little rusty after taking a break from writing, but I hope this chapter will be satisfactory. Thanks to RisikaKiisu for commenting on my dormant last chapter and motivating me to write an update! Here y’all go :)
> 
> *Warnings for descriptions and references to non-con, torture, and suicide. Stay safe <3

_ The unrelenting fog of rain spreads an icy slick over the sidewalks, casting a grey sheen over the city. I huddle in the shallow doorway, shivering, drenched to the skin despite every attempt to avoid the bone-chilling drizzle. Umbrellas and raincoats hurry past me on the cobblestone—people with jobs and families and homes, all of them averting their eyes in a vain attempt to pretend they haven’t seen the destitute bundles of rags and cardboard that serve as makeshift shelters for the less fortunate. I think I used to do the same, a long time ago—walking just a little bit faster in hopes that a ragged voice won’t call out to you, begging for recognition and guilting you out of your spare change. Even now, I don’t blame the ones who ignore my desperation. I would have done the same.  _

_ Hunger clenches my gut, sending the too-familiar dizziness rushing to my head. As I shake it, willing my eyes to refocus, a pair of pristine, wealthy-looking shoes come to a stop in front of my eyeline.  _

_ “How old are you?” His voice is refined. I drag my gaze upward to the man standing above me, his head cocked to one side as he waits for an answer. I hesitate, just barely, before answering. I’ve found that people often take pity on the young ones.  _

_ “Fourteen, sir.” I respond, and he smiles. “Are you hungry?” When I nod, he extends a leather-gloved hand. “Let me take you someplace to eat.”  _

—“And you just went with him? A total stranger offering to whisk away a mere child? Idiotic. Anyone can see what an obvious ruse that is.” Sherlock rolled his eyes with as much drama as a teenage girl himself, leaning back and crossing his legs. I winced at the harsh interruption and paused, feeling the pang of familiar regret that began six years ago. “I was a kid.” I said softly, after a moment. “I was starving, and I didn’t know any better.” 

Sherlock stared back at me, his sharp eyes piercing as he took in my words. “Alright, fine. You were a child. Continue.” He said eventually, and the words were somehow muted, almost apologetic. I breathed in.

_ The man takes me to a cafe nearby, tucking my arm into his and shielding the rain with his umbrella. As I devour an ale pie and chips, nearly beside myself with the sensation of warm food, he plies me with questions, gently yet relentlessly, until I’ve told him everything—my father’s sudden heart attack two years ago, my mother growing increasingly unhinged until the day I found her naked in a bathtub, submerged in her own blood. “Surely you had more family to come for you?” He asks, waving the waiter down to refill my plate. “There’s no one. I think there’s a cousin in America, but no one who knows me. I’m on my own.”  _

_ The man—his name, he’d told me, was Ives—leans forward. “Laurie, what if I told you I can help you?” His smooth voice is inviting, warm. “I run a home of sorts for girls like you—I shelter them, feed them, help them get back on their feet.” When I hesitate, he adds, “At least come stay for the night. It’s freezing on the streets. Let me help you.”  _

_ He seems so genuine, a diplomat dedicated to helping others. As I bask in the warmth of the cafe and the fullness in my stomach, it seems like a gift from God, a chance to be human again.  _

_ Outside the cafe, a jet black private car drives us for what feels like hours, twisting through the streets of London until we reach the outskirts and disembark in front of an enormous, glass and stone mansion. The building, surrounded by a dark, thorned hedge taller than any human, seems at once luxurious and vaguely foreboding. Ives ushers me in through the front door into a small antechamber with a metal detector and another, heavy-looking door with a keypad. Ives punches a code and swings the door open with a flourish. “Welcome to your new home, my dear.”  _

“I started getting scared right then.” 

The Chinese carton was congealing on the lamp table beside me, and I could feel a twinge of nausea lurking as the smell of boiled cabbage combined with the anxiety of calling up old memories. Sherlock didn’t answer; just shrugged and waited for me to continue. His eyes, now shrouded in the shadows that had grown with the evening, were completely unreadable. I took a heavy, unrefreshing breath. 

“He showed me around. It was like an old hotel, or hospital—a lot of closed rooms and corridors. It was clean, and nice looking, but it gave me the creeps. I didn’t know why, then.” 

“Corruption is easily disguised. Pure evil, however, remains as palpable as any concrete form.” Sherlock murmured thoughtfully. “Go on.”

_ “Where are the other girls?” I venture as we walk past rows of closed doors. Ives glances at me with a smile. “The other girls? I’m afraid we’re rather low on stock at the moment. Don’t you worry though, my dear. That just means you’ll be even more popular.” He chuckles, low and rattling, as he puts a firm hand on my elbow and steers me into one of the rooms. I pull away from his touch, alarm sizzling across my skin, and he grabs my arm roughly, shoving me inside.  _

_ “This is where the magic happens, Laurie. Oh, and by the way—we don’t use names here. Not nice ones, at least. You’ll answer to girl, slut, dog, whatever the client chooses to call you. Do you understand?” _

_ “I—I want to leave. Please let me leave.” Tears choke my voice as Ives laughs again. His voice has lost every trace of the former warmth and is now mocking and greedy. His hands grips my arm with bruising force as we face the room. I see a bare, metal framed bed, a couple of chairs, and-things-hanging from the ceiling, windowless cabinets against the wall.  _

_ “You see, little one, there are men out there with needs—dark, socially unacceptable needs.” His eyes darken with lust. So I’ve created a space where clients can pay a premium sum to fulfill their base desires. I needn’t fill you in on the details—you’ll soon see for yourself.” _

_ I’m shaking, so much that I could fall if not for the iron grip on my arm. “The police will find you!” I gasp desperately. “You can’t get away with this—they’ll find you!” _

_ Ives grins, a slimy, evil grin. “Oh, don’t worry your little head about that. You see, it’s all very professional here. Only the most elite clients are allowed entry, and they certainly would not comprise their social, business, or political positions by being indiscreet. Even if someone were to find out who wasn’t meant to be here, we have ways of keeping people quiet. But the best part—“ He leans in and his breath washes hot and heavy across my face. “—Is that girls like you are completely expendable. NO ONE will miss you. And when you’re all used up, there are just as many more left to replace you.” He shoves me forward onto the bed with a guttural laugh and swings his leg over mine, pinning me down. I’m screaming, even though I can’t hear myself. His voice is invasive in my ear, drowning me.  _

_ “And now, you piece of meat, it’s time to break you in.”  _

“—You don’t need to tell me more.” Sherlock cut me off as I struggled to finish the last sentence. It was a pointless offer—I knew I couldn’t bring myself to elaborate anymore. I was so tired. The wound on my shoulder seemed to be sending flares of pain through my entire back and chest and I found myself gasping for air for a long moment, memories flooding over me like viscera. Catching a fresh breath, I looked up at Sherlock, who seemed mildly alarmed. 

“Are you all right? Do you need an ambulance?” He asked quickly. I shook my head. 

“I’m fine. I’m almost done—I tried to run away—every door was locked. So he grabbed me and—broke my finger—and then—“ 

Sherlock leaned forward, one hand hovering over my knee but not carefully not touching me. 

“You should get more sleep.” He said. “Come on, up you go. That’s it.” He helped me up and led me back to the bedroom. Once again his arm was around my shoulders, gently, as though he were afraid to break me. I didn’t say anything, still reeling from the retelling and the fresh wounds it had opened. Once he had gotten me through the door Sherlock stepped away, a long shadow against the doorframe. 

“Sleep as long as you need. Mrs. Hudson will make you breakfast whenever you wake up.” 

And with that he was gone, the door clasped shut. I curled up on the bed, shivering. As I lay there, a sound came drifting through the darkness. One long, sorrowful note, then another—I sat up abruptly as it hit me what it was. The violin’s melody curled around me, pensive and simple, from the front of the flat, instantly smoothing my shattered senses and settling around me like a blanket. It was a sound I hadn’t heard in years, yet I felt my fingers moving against the bed frame of their own accord, fingering the simple melody as if they had never left off. For the first time in years, I laid down and closed my eyes without fearing the nightmares I knew I would see. Instead, the melody of Sherlock’s instrument twined around me as I drifted to sleep, and I almost thought I could feel the familiar bow in my own hands for the first time in a long, long time


End file.
